Once, In a Lullaby
by LondonBelow
Summary: Four years ago, he left and swore he would never look back. Now Roger's heading home for a visit. AU Chapter 9: Roger and April have some quality couple time
1. In which Characters are Introduced

"Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high/There's a place that I've heard of/Once, in a lullaby." --_Somewhere over the Rainbow_

Disclaimer: RENT and its characters belong to Jonathan Larson. General situation debt to alwaysflying.

Before I went out, I paused to give my baby brother a cuddle. He was approaching that cute stage—finally sleeping through the night, and starting to smell more like baby and less like poo. That night, I checked that his eyes were open and shining, his lips slick with drool as he reached for the stars on his mobile, before lifting him into my arms.

"Ha! Ha! Haa!"

That was about the extent of his communicative abilities at that point. He giggled as I bounced him a couple of times then kissed his hair.

"Ugh." Someone needed a change.

I cast about me, as though a parent might miraculously appear, then sighed. "All right." I set the baby down, then slipped off my jacket. If he peed or spit up on my shirt, that was fine, it was just another breast-pocket button-down, but the leather was… maybe not more precious than my brother. Probably equal.

I set the baby on the changing table, stripped him out of his diaper and wiped him clean. I distinctly remember that he giggled while I was doing this, and I believe I referred to him under my breath as a "homosexual in training".

Well I was wiping poo off my brother's rear end, I needed something to distract me!

When he was clean and powdered and diapered again, I set him in the crib and went to the bathroom to scrub my hands. The poo smell washed off. The talcum powder did not, and it was not unpleasant, anyway.

I visited him again to pick up my jacket, chuck him under the chin and say, "See ya, Sparky."

I sang him a lullaby and waited until he was fast asleep, his fat cheeks bulged out and spit pouring around the thumb stopperring his mouth.

Then I was gone, probably down the fire escape.

-

Pride demands downfall.

Pride means taking one last suck off the joint outside the building, following it with a gulp of cold air and scuffing the thing out on the pavement. That is precisely what I did. I stood outside for a moment, enjoying the chill in the air, hands jammed into my pockets. I bounced on the balls of my feet, trying to warm up.

Then I headed in.

I should have used the fire escape. Really, if I had been clever at all, I would have climbed up the fire escape, picked my way _quietly_ into the bedroom, and slipped under the covers before anyone heard a sound.

A year ago, I would have done just that. A year ago, I would stand only a one in a million chance of being caught, if that.

A year ago, I didn't have a baby brother sharing my bedroom. Not that I mind, by that point: his cries woke me easily, and I was used to taking him into my bed and wondering why my mother wasn't doing this. Proximity, I decided.

When I snuck out, he was sleeping through the night. I was sure he would not wake.

It's easy to be sure after two beers and more than a few sucks off a joint, no matter how cheap those beers and even if the herb was half marijuana and half oregano. It's easy to be sure after spending a handful of hours lounging about with mates, smoking and drinking and eating and watching pornographic films.

I let myself into the apartment through the front door and closed it softly behind me. I locked the deadbolt slowly, holding my breath in the dark corridor, listening to the apartment breathe. I tried to keep the chain from clinking as I slid that lock into place.

When the latch fell, I sighed, feeling somehow that with the locks in place I was home free. It was only a few feet to my bedroom, then under the covers and to sleep. No one would know the difference.

A grin spread across my face.

Then stars exploded before eyes. My head pulled away from the door, steely fingers grasping my hair.

_Shit_.

Dad threw me onto the floor and flipped on the light; it's too bright. "Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Fuck," I moaned, pissed at myself for being caught, at the light for being bright, at my dad for being a dick.

"Answer me, God damn it!"

Like shouting will make me more responsive. Or kicking me, the sonuvabitch. "Where were you?"

I wasn't going to say anything. Maybe I was too high. Maybe I was too disappointed. But the bastard kept kicking me, kept shouting. I heard scuffling in the next room: Mom was up.

What made me move was the crying. From down the hall, my – our – bedroom, I heard a loud wailing. It made my father stop hitting me. I took the opportunity to lower my arms and glare at him with utter contempt.

"You happy now, asshole?"

I stood and shoved past him. Maybe Dad just wasn't used to the wails of children, but something in my brother's cry shut him up. I stalked down the hall and slammed shut the door to our bedroom.

My lip was bleeding. Other than that, I had no sense of my injuries. I lifted the baby out of his crib and sat on my bed, leaning against the wall, cradling my brother in my lap. I held him and rocked and waited for him to quiet down.

He fell asleep, but I was up for a long time.

-

Mom made me breakfast the next morning: French toast and eggs sizzling in a pan while I sat at the table coaxing my brother to eat. "Come on, Sparks… just a few bites. Look: lookit the airplane… nrrrooww… Good boy, Sparky!"

"Roger, please. He's not a dog," Mom protested.

I hunched my shoulders and took the napkin off the high chair tray to clean his face. "Aaw, but he's nearly as cute. Aren't you?" He burbled and giggled at me. "Yes. _Mark_," I added, and tossed a grin at Mom.

"Thank you. Here." She place a plate in front of me. "You have your breakfast and let me give him his."

"Thanks, Mommy." I bit into the fare gladly, shoveling scrambled eggs down my throat as she fed Sparky Marky. "You know," I said, though she couldn't possibly, "I'm leaving today."

Mom sighed. "Roger…"

"I'm leaving, I'm getting away, and I think you should come with me. You can bring Mark. I wish you would. I'm leaving and I'm never looking back."

She shook her head. "Roger, you're not thinking."

"I'm thinking I wanna be safe."

I wanted her to come with me. Mom had a set job and a steady income. I would work. Together we could manage easily, and look after the baby. Maybe it would be a while before I returned to school, but at least we would be safe.

It didn't work out that way.

TO BE CONTINUED!


	2. In which Roger heads Home to Visit

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with his characters.

Maybe putting on my old clothes was a stupid choice.

Actually, I had barely taken off the leather jacket in the four years since I made good on my word, packing a bag and walking straight out of the house. The first night, I slept out on the streets, in an alley but still a good neighborhood, huddled up and clutching my bag and altogether too glad for the warm, supple leather, which settled around me like a blanket and kept the chill away.

The fit of my jeans had shifted. They still slid one easily enough. I was lanky yet, and always would be, I imagined; my legs remained slim, though more from want of food than the hours I spent in the school gym back in high school.

No, what had changed was my rear. Still fairly flat, what padding I had had ballooned a little as it changed from muscle to fat, and now the jeans hugged that area more tightly than I necessarily wanted.

But I put the old things on anyway, even the old underwear. There was no point keeping them, really, since one more nocturnal emission would probably wear away the rest of the fabric, but I had them, so I wore them, under my jeans and my button-down top and my leather jacket, the same clothes I wore when I walked out of the apartment four years ago.

Maybe Mom would see me coming and it would be just like I had never left. It would be like I had walked away and lost my nerve at the elevator, like I had turned back and gone home.

Had they fixed the lock on my bedroom window? Not _my_ bedroom, that is, but what had been my bedroom and was probably Sparky's now. Would he recognize me? Probably not, he had been less than a year old when I left (not by much, but less). I couldn't expect him to remember who fed him and cuddled him and changed his diapers.

_Stop it._

Sentimentality was for women. I'd probably get enough of it from Mom on my return. No need to get into a sob beforehand.

"So why'd you leave, anyway?"

"I haven't left. You're blocking my way." With that I stooped to give Collins' legs a tap, hoping he would move them.

Collins, being Collins, didn't. "You could go around," he said. He read with his body all stretched out, in this case with his legs proper up on the table, which is just the antithesis of how I read.

Perhaps that's because he read philosophy and wanted to apply it to everything and everyone.

Of course I couldn't go around. "That's not the point." He was blocking my most direct route out of the loft. All right, I could have gotten around him and been gone already in the time I had taken arguing, but that wouldn't be half as fun.

And besides, that would mean letting Collins get away with blocking my path.

"You never did say why you left home in the first place," he said.

I sighed. We were starting this up again, were we? "I love our lifescript as much as you do," I allowed, "but my mom expects me at six-thirty, and it's nearly six-fifteen now."

Collins shrugged. "Your preening's not my business, I'm just having a chat with a roommate who's lazing around."

"You're the lazer." That's not a word, I realize, but so what? It was already said. It only matters that a word is made up when you admit that it means nothing, even though it _does_ mean something, since it has logical roots and everyone sees why it means what it means. "Let me pass."

Collins gave me a wicked jack-o-lantern grin. "Pay the toll," he said.

Fucker.

Just then, the door swung open and in piled the rest of our roommates. "Oy! You two come and help put things away!" Julie called. She, like the others, carried grocery bags.

"Weren't you leaving, Roger?" Stanley asked.

"Are you staying in after all?" April wanted to know.

I shook my head. "Can't, am, and not," I said. "But Thomas will gladly help sort out the grocery, won't you?"

So I managed to win round one, and skipped out on the shelf-stacking. Of course, I had to visit my mother, which maybe was not such a prize in comparison to ten minutes' putting away.

I slip my portable radio into my pocket, and on the subway I can close my eyes and relax, and let the music carry me along, half-listening for the stop. I don't consciously recognize the name of my stop; before I can try to recall where I grew up, I'm on my feet and strolling out of the car.

The cold air slapped me in the face. Two blocks I walked with my hands in my pockets and the music in my ears unable to drown out all the questions… like what the hell was I doing?

"_Roger?" The machine called out my name in a voice not completely unlike my mother's. I heard it from my bedroom, where I was pleasantly not-quite-awake, cuddled under the blankets and enjoying my syrupy laziness._

"_Roger, this is your mother."_

"_Roger, your mom's calling!" Stanley called. He had a way of expanding his voice to fill the loft with sound, shaking me out of my sleepiness._

_I shuffled out of the room and glowered at Stanley, who was sitting at the table with Julie and Collins, all of them nursing cups of coffee. "You suck."_

"_She sounds nice."_

"…_wondering if you would come home this year for your birthday. It's a big year for you, honey!"_

_I picked up the phone. "Hey, Mommy."_

_Collins and Julie traded looks. Yes, Roger Davis still says "Mommy". Suck it, bitches._

"_Yeah, I… okay, I'll come. Yeah. Oh, how is he? Can I talk to him? Oh. Okay. Well… well, I'll see you then. Okay, bye. Yeah. Bye, Mom. I love you, too."_

_When I hung up, Collins, Stanley and Julie were watching me, expectant. "Uh… that was my mom. I'm going home for my birthday." I glanced from one baffled face to another then asked, "Any coffee left?"_

I paused outside the apartment. Well, she was still living with Dad. It was his name on the buzzer.

What if he answered? What if I buzzed and it was Dad who answered? I'd just leave, that was all. I had no desire to see him, and I doubted he had any desire to see me. If that was what Mom was planning…

Aw. I loved my mom. If that's what she was planning, well, then, I would have to disappoint her.

I pressed the buzzer and waited. Would it be her, or him? Would I go in, or turn around and go home?

"Hello."

Neither. I stood, stunned. It was neither my mother's high, always tired voice nor my father's low drawl, but a high-pitched young voice. It was my brother.

"Honey, no, don't play with that!" I heard my mother's voice quietly in the background, then, louder, "Hello?"

"Hi… Mom?"

"Roger! Honey, you came!"

"Yeah."

"Well, come upstairs!" There was a loud buzzing sound, and I pulled open the door.

I took the stairs. I needed the exercise to calm my nerves—and since the apartment was ten stories up, it _was_ exercise. Four years ago, I flew down these stairs, hurrying before I changed my mind. And now, heading back, in the same clothes I wore when I left, it was just as though I had changed my mind. I was seventeen again, heading home shamefaced with my tail between my legs.

_Stop it._

I shook my head. _You're not a child._ I squared my shoulders and held my head up. _Show them. Show her you're all right. Show him he can't treat you like that anymore._

I took a deep breath and combed my hair back with my fingers. Too late to chicken out now. Well, perhaps not; I could make a dash for the stairs, but—

Just as I was considering this escape route, there was a series of small, metallic sounds, and the door opened.

TO BE CONTINUED!

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	3. In which there is Peanut Butter

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters.

"Roger!"

"Mommy." The words slipped out before I could think, and she put her arms around me and pulled me close and hugged me until her hug became a squeeze, and the squeeze became fingernails squeaking in the leather of my jacket.

_I was ten years old, and I remember how she braced herself, even as the tears welled up against her will. One hand on the counter, her body quivering, she said, "Go to your room."_

_She didn't look away from him nor blink, not for a moment. "Go to your room, Roger." Even then, trying to save me, she still imagined she could keep him busy on her. She thought he would never dare come after me._

"_Mom…"_

"_**Now**__ Roger."_

_I gasped and ran, slammed shut the bedroom door and sank down onto the floor. From the kitchen came the noises of their fight, of him shouting and her shouting back, him hitting her._

_And then, when it was done, the door slammed so hard the building seemed to shake._

_It was then, at the end of the eternity, that I loosened my sore muscles and forced them to work again. I stumbled back to the kitchen, listening to her sob and to the cricks of my bones and the screams of my muscles as the blood began to flow again._

"_Mommy?"_

_She was sitting on the floor, by the counter. Was she going to die? I don't know where the thought came from. "Mommy?" I inched closer, for some reason, no reason, afraid._

"_It's okay, baby," she half-sobbed, half-hiccupped. "Go back to sleep… Mommy'll come tuck you in, baby, real soon, I promise."_

_A thin veil of cold fog poured over me, along with the whir of a motor as I opened the freezer. I took a dishtowel out of the drawer and, standing on tiptoe, retrieved one, two, three cubes of ice. Then I folded the package up and brought it to her, kneeling like a supplicant._

"_Here, Mommy."_

_She sniffled, wiped her eyes and nose on the back of her hand. Her eyes were bleeding dark black streaks of mascara. "Thank you, baby."_

"It's okay, Mom." I rested a hand on the back of her head. She was shaking, so… so flimsy, so fragile. "It's okay."

After a moment, she pulled away from me. "Of course it is." Mom looked at me and smiled. She smiled at my face and brushed away tears. "I'm just so glad you're home."

_I'm not here for long_, but I bit back the retort. She seemed so happy, why hurt her? She stepped back and told me to come in, and I did. The place smelled just as I remembered it: musty, and a bit like wine. The furniture was all the same; I noticed in the living room most of the same photographs set up in frames on tables, and that damn antimacassar that Dad loved so much for no good reason.

One thing had changed, though. A little blond boy sat on the carpet, mumble-singing to himself as he played with blocks and Playdoh.

"Is that…?"

Mom nodded. "Mark," she called. "Come and say hello to our guest."

Mark glanced over his shoulder, barely looked at me, and said, "Hewo," then turned back to his game.

"No, Mark, come say hello properly."

While this was going on, it seemed to me like something out of an old movie. _This_ was my Mark? He'd gotten so big… Now Mark was walking. I missed that. I missed him learning how to walk. I missed the eye exam that ended in his having wire rims slapped onto his face.

I wondered if he had been frightened, and bit my lip that I hadn't been there to hold his hand.

Mark looked up at me. Spit bubbled over his bottom lip. "Hi," he said.

"Hey."

Without thinking, I bent down to pick him up. It was what I had always done: swarmed into the room and picked him up for a cuddle and a kiss and a sniff of his baby hair. Mark wasn't a baby anymore, though, and when I reached for him he pulled back and hid behind Mom's legs.

"Mommee," he whined, burying his face in the backs of her knees.

She lifted him into her arms. He wrapped his arms around her neck, gave me a wicked glance, then buried his face in her chest. "Mommy."

Mom smiled at me apologetically. "Honey, he doesn't remember," she said. Then, to Mark, she said, "This is your brother, honey. He's your big brother Roger."

I grinned, but Mark didn't remember me.

I guess I shouldn't have expected too much from the little guy. He had only been a baby when I left, and he wasn't much more than that now. And yet, when I compared myself with him, what had I done in the past few years? Mark had learned to walk and speak, he could play with his toys and hold them.

"Well, I have to go check on dinner—"

"Aw, Mom, you didn't have to do anything special for me."

"Roger, it's your twenty-first birthday," Mom said. She ran a thumb across my cheek. "I've missed spoiling you."

"Mommy, I'm hungry," Mark mumbled.

Mom pulled a face. I knew that exasperation all too well. "We're eating in about half an hour, honey."

"But I'm hungry _now_!"

I could hear him starting to turn on the waterworks, and it seemed there was very little rust on those pipes. A good sign? By his age, I had learned to keep it in, squash it down, don't let Daddy see. If Mark was crying manipulatively…

Regardless of the implications, he _was_ about to cry. "I can make you a snack," I offered quickly. "How 'bout it? We can go with Mommy, okay?"

"Don't want you," Mark protested.

Mom gave me another smile. "Let's all go into the kitchen," she said. "I'm _sure_ we'll find something for you to eat." She stroked Mark's hair.

The kitchen was just as I remembered, except that at the table now there was a booster seat instead of a high chair. Some of the pictures on the refrigerator had changed, but I recognized some photographs of me, family photos—though few and far between—and one of me shortly before my seventeenth birthday. I was sitting on the couch, grinning, holding Mark in my lap. He was probably around six or seven months at that point.

"Hey, Mark?" I plucked the photo off the refrigerator. "Look."

He did.

"This is us, buddy." I pointed to the picture. "Here's you… and me."

Mark shook his head. "'S not you," he whimpered. "It's not-like-you _hair_."

I smiled. "Yeah, I grew my hair out." I replaced the photograph and, as Mom sat Mark on the counter, grabbed the peanut butter out of the fridge. There were raisins and rice cakes in the cupboards. I fixed a rice cake for Mark and held it out to him. "Here you go, buddy."

Mark looked at the rice cake, then at me, and scooted back.

"Fine. Well it's here if you want it." I left the rice cake on the counter, its raisin face staring at Mark from a peanut butter complexion. He stared back.

Mom, meanwhile, had finished whatever it was she was doing with dinner. "All right," she announced. "Can we wait about twenty minutes?"

"Guess we'll have to."

"But I'm hungry no-o-o-ow!"

No, the latter was not my response, but a high whine from my little brother. He slapped his fists against his thighs as he whined.

Mom sighed. "Mark," she said evenly, "your brother made you a nice snack. You can eat that and you won't be hungry for a little while."

"No!" And with that Mark picked up the rice cake and threw it at me. It hit me on the cheek and stuck for a moment.

Before Mom could even begin to scold Mark, I had lipped the rice cake off my cheek and stuck my finger into the tub of peanut butter. I scooped out about a tablespoon and smeared it down Mark's cheek. He stared at me, his eyes going huge behind wire-rimmed glasses, and I knew I was about to be on the receiving end of a huge tantrum.

Then, to my great surprise, Mark laughed! He tossed his head back and laughed so hard his entire body shook, his tiny hands slapping together.

"Oh." A smile crept onto Mom's face. "Good," she said, relieved. "Now, Mark, honey, let me get that off—" and she reached out with a towel.

Mark pulled back. He shook his head. "Don't want you," he said. "Want 'Oger."

To be continued!

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	4. In which the Boys Play

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing with the characters.

"Roger, he's too old for that," Mom protested.

"No, I'm not!" Mark whined. He lunged forward and swallowed the pudding off the spoon. He swallowed, then bounced up and down in his seat, clapping his hands. "Airplane!" he cried. "Airplane!"

Mom frowned and made a disgruntled noise. I smiled at her. "I'll take care of the dishes," I promised, "after this."

She shook her head. "Don't worry about that. You're a guest. But I don't want him behaving like a baby."

"Are you a baby, Sparky?"

"No!" he shouted.

I grinned. "See, Mom?"

She shook her head. "Boys," she said, then took the plates from the table and piled them in the sink. I held up the spoon and made engine noises as the spoon swooped around Mark's head, then down to his mouth. Mark swallowed happily.

When the cup was empty, I cleaned his face off with a paper napkin. He _was_ too old to be spoon-fed, Mom was right about that, but I couldn't help treating Mark like the baby I had left behind. Four years ago, he had to be spoonfed.

Mark slipped off his booster seat and thumped to the floor. He looked up at me, pushed his glasses up on his nose and said, "You wanna come see my room?"

"In a minute, buddy. I've got to help Mom with the dishes--"

Mom interrupted, "No, go. I'll take care of things here."

"Thanks, Mom."

"Come on, Roger!" Mark grabbed my hand and tugged, leaving me no choice but to chase him to the room that was once mine. Little had changed: the bed was positioned under the window, a bookshelf, a dresser and closet. The baby things were gone—the crib, the changing table, the trash can full of diapers (well, the trash can was there). There was a small, colorful plastic chest, though, and I could guess what was inside it.

Mark looked at me. "What do you wanna play?" he asked. "I got a barrel of monkeys and blocks and horsies an' some play-doh." Without awaiting an answer, he opened his toy chest and pulled out a plastic horse.

"That's a pretty nifty toy, Mark."

He scowled. "It's _not_ a _toy,_" he informed me, solemnly indignant. "It's a horsie."

I grinned. "My mistake. Looks like a really strong horse. What's her name?"

"Toronto."

I bit back laughter. "Toronto, huh? That's a neat name for a horsie."

Mark nodded, solemnity deepening his soft features. "An' he's my horse an' I'm gonna be the knight," he said.

"Okay. Am I your squire?"

He frowned. "You're not a _square_!"

I laughed and examined myself. "I'm not?! Well I'll be—" definitely _not_ teaching my baby brother any swear words, on the off chance he doesn't know them yet. Mom might never invite me back and I realized, to my surprise, that I wanted her to. "—jiggered."

"You can be the princess," Mark decided, "an' I'll come an' rescue you."

I grinned. "Okay." _If the guys heard about that, they'd never let me hear the end of it. Luckily, Stanley and Collins will never meet my little brother, and will never hear the tale of Princess Roger. I love Mark. I can do this._

"Here." He rummaged through his toy box and produced a plastic tiara. "You gotta come down here." I knelt so Mark could put the tiara on my head. If he wanted me to wear a tutu or something, I'd draw the line. Luckily Mark just pointed to the window. "You go out there and wait for me to rescue you," he said.

I chuckled. Just like old times, eh? I climbed out onto the fire escape. A blast of cool air blew through my hair.

"I'm slaying the dragon now!" Mark called.

Over the side of the fire escape, I saw pools of light under the streetlamps. Cars were parked along the street; double-parked, in some places, probably for the party across the street. Their music bled out into the night air, disco and crud like that.

"Now I'm climbing into the dragon's cave!" Mark called. "Where a-a-a-re you?"

"Back here!" I called in a falsely high voice. "Oh, help me, brave Sir Mark!"

Mark climbed onto the bed, leaned out the window and tapped me on the knee. "You're rescued!" he announced. "Now you can come inside an' we can get married."

That's too much. I could barely suppress giggles. I was going to be my baby brother's wife, was I? "Who's going to conduct the ceremony?" I asked.

"Toronto!" Mark declared.

So the horse married us. Then I lifted Mark up and swung him around the room, which made him squeal. I let him win three rounds of War, then we played Candyland and Mark quit two rounds before I won. "I'm bored!" he announced.

"All right. Let's clean up here and go visit with Mom, okay?" I asked. That was when I caught sight of the clock. It was nearly nine o'clock. "When's your bedtime, Mark?"

"I don't have a bedtime," he said. "Only babies have bedtimes!"

_I got news for you, bucko,_ I thought. "Okay. Let's put your toys away." I did most of the work, since Mark moved more slowly and clumsily, but together we arranged all of his playthings as they belonged.

"Okay, Markeroo." I lifted him up and slung him over my shoulder.

"Rogerrrr!" Mark squealed.

Mom sat on the couch, knitting needles in hand. I set Mark on the ground and thumped down next to her. "What's this going to be, Mommy?" I asked, fingering her work. It was a long red strip, too fat to be a scarf but too thin to be a blanket.

"It's a panel for an afghan," she said. Mark settled on the ground, playing with a bunch of blocks and some Play-doh.

Mom rubbed a thumb across my cheek. "I didn't give you your presents yet."

I blushed. "Mom, you didn't have to…"

"You're my son," she said. "I miss spoiling you."

My shoulders twitched. Mom had never spoiled me. She had shoved me into my room before screaming at Dad until he hit her. She had tried to protect me, yes, but spoiled? I wasn't spoiled.

Nevertheless, if that was what Mom wanted to believe, if that hurt her less, maybe it was all right.

"Here."

Seeing the wrapped packages, Mark looked up, then looked down at his toys again when he realized the presents were for me.

"Thanks, Mom."

"Open them."

"Aw, Mom…" My mother works crafts. Throughout my childhood, when she wasn't having a screaming fight with my father or getting the crap kicked out of her, I remember her working at crochet or knitting or sewing. She made a profit off it, knitting old T-shirts into rag rugs. She sold quilts, usually only a couple each year but they went for hundreds of dollars. She was really fantastic.

My hands thumped down on the folds of fabric in my lap. "You didn't have to do this…"

"You're my son," she said again.

In the hall, a door opened and shut. I glanced at Mom. She shoved her knitting into a bag. "Mom…?"

Oblivious, Mark sat on the floor, playing with his blocks.

"Roger," Mom said, "go wait in the kitchen, okay, honey? Mark, pick up your toys." Mark scrambled to obey. I didn't. Just what was she planning? Going to sneak me out of the apartment? "I want to surprise your father," Mom said, but her eyes were begging.

I went into the kitchen, nibbling nervously on my thumbnail. I didn't want to see him.

Maybe I could sneak into the bedroom and climb out the window. Maybe I could bolt the moment he walked in the door. Maybe…

I bit my lip. Maybe I could be a good son and stay here.

Realizing I held something in my hands, I looked down. It was the quilt Mom had given me.

I smiled. _Yes._ I would stay.

Anyone can change, after all… right?

_To be continued..._


	5. Princess Roger to the Rescue!

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

WARNING: Not a happy chapter... at all.

I don't know how long I was in the kitchen before I started making myself a sandwich. At a guess, I'd say half a minute. I put down the quilt, pulled out the bread, jelly and peanut butter and was chomping down as soon as possible. It doesn't matter how old you are, peanut butter and jelly is the be all and end all of the universe.

In the living room, Mom and… him. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. Mom and… and… My throat tightened. I couldn't even _think_ the title, nothing affectionate. They were in the next room. She had taken his coat and hung it in the hallway closet.

"…good day, honey?" Mom recited her usual script.

And it's about then that things got bad.

"What the hell happened to the carpet?"

"Oh…" Mom answered nervously. "It… it looks like some Play-doh got on it. It'll come out—"

"Mark!"

I bit my lip. This was a too-familiar scene. This was seven-year-old Roger accidentally breaking a glass in the kitchen. This was nine-year-old Roger tracking in muddy footprints after soccer practice.

"Peter!" Mom protested. "He's just a child, he didn't mean anything! It'll come out, Peter, you don't need to--"

Don't _need_ to, she said, like he ever needed to. Apparently he disagreed.

"Get in here, you little shit!"

It always amazed me, his ability to go from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. One moment he was relaxed and ready to put his feet up and fall asleep, the next, smashing my face into the wall.

Even knowing it's not me—he didn't even know I was there, I was safe—my palms were slick with sweat and I couldn't breathe right. My heart raced painfully. I backed against the counter, trying to find a secure grip. I needed to be safe somewhere, somewhere he couldn't get me. Why was he always doing this to me?

"Get in here!"

I whimpered. My nails bit too harshly into my palms. He was going to kill me this time. What was I going to do? I why… why could I never fight back?! Why, every time he held me by the arm and smacked me around, did I stand and take it and sob out apologies?

It was a high wail that broke through my memories.

"Peter!" That was Mom, objecting but doing nothing.

The sound of a smack, and another wail, and _him_ shouting about how he worked all the damn day and he didn't do it for some ungrateful little shit to graffiti up his home.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself, hm?"

"I'm sorr-ree!"

"Don't you fuckin' lie to me!"

"Daddy, stop!"

"Aw, for fuck's sake…" My sandwich thumped to the floor. I bumped the table, hard, too buried in anger to actually look around as I fled the room. I couldn't listen to this. I could _not_ stand there and listen to him _beat_ my baby brother, dammit!

Where the hell was I when Mark was growing up? Where was I through his nightmares? Where was I when he learned to read? Why didn't I walk him to his first day of kindergarten? Why—

"Get the fuck off my brother you asshole!"

I didn't even know what I was doing before I had press both palms to his chest, shocking him so badly he let go of Mark's arm, and I shoved him. I didn't mean to push so hard, but he stumbled away a couple of steps.

Mark fell, too, tripping back two steps before landing on his rear. He gave a tiny whimper. Already tears were streaming down his cheeks and he was sobbing quiet little hiccup noises.

"You don't _ever_ touch him," I snapped, staring at the man. He stared back at me, and we were both panting, furious.

He looked away first. "You don't tell me," he panted, "how to raise my kid."

"You don't _touch_ my brother, _ever_!" Flecks of spit flew out with the words.

"Roger!"

_Damn._ I had forgotten about Mom, standing there like her feet were nailed to the floor. She stood, watching one son cry and one shout and her husband, losing it, red in the face and so angry his eyes seemed shrunk.

"Roger… Peter… stop…"

But why did she do nothing? Why did she not swoop in and carry out squalling little Mark? Why worry about me and him? We could take care of ourselves. The kid couldn't.

In the end, that's what kept me from having a fistfight with my father. Mark, in an attempt to get as far away from the fight as possible, scooted back until he hit something solid. And that something solid crashed against the wall, then onto the couch, then bounced off Mark, who had curled up into a little ball and protected his head, clever little thing, and so was fairly unhurt.

But he was scared enough to scream.

"You little--"

"Stay away from him!"

I scooped Mark into my arms, cast one final look at… _him_, then strode down the hall to Mark's/my bedroom.

When I set him on the bed, Mark didn't move. He just stared at me. "Where's your bag?" I asked, looking around the room. It wasn't in his toy chest or under the book shelf.

"Mark! Where's your bag!"

He recoiled slightly. "A… are you g-gonna…" He was still crying.

I shook my head. That had been stupid of me. _He's a baby,_ I reminded myself, _just a little baby._ "I'm sorry, Mark. I just…" The eagerness to get out made my chest itch. "We're going to go now, okay? I'm going to take you to my apartment, okay, buddy?"

Mark looked down at the bed. His feet hung limply, and he whispered something.

"What, Mark?" I asked.

"'Had an accident," he repeated, barely audibly. Now that he mentioned it, he had left my arms a bit sticky. "I'm sorry."

_Okay. First, get him cleaned and changed. Then we get the fuck outta here._

When I stepped towards him, Mark scooted back. "I didn't mean to," he whimpered, one arm raised to shield his head.

_Christ._ As though I would ever…

"Yeah, I know. I just want to get you cleaned up, okay?" I asked, and I held out my hand. Mark looked up at my face, then at the hand, and seemed to realize that he had known me for only one evening… but he took my hand, anyway.

_To be continued!_


	6. Blazing into the Sunset

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

I packed while Mark was in the bath. It wasn't more than four inches of water, and I didn't want to leave him alone. Luckily, the bathroom was a link between his/my bedroom and his/my parents' bedroom. I locked the door to theirs and left the door to ours open.

"You can bathe yourself, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. Clean up then come out into your room." I turned to go—it was one thing to change his diapers, quite another to give an intimate wash to a five-year-old—then paused. "What's your favorite outfit, Mark?"

"You mean clothes?"

"Yeah."

He thought for a moment. "My blue pants and red shirt," he said.

"Okay." I had no idea which blue pants or which red shirt, but I left him alone and pulled open the drawers in his room.

Mark's clothes were first-hand. Some had never been worn, it seemed, and none had threadbare patches. He wasn't neglected. Neither had I been, for that matter. It was as though he thought if he spent enough money on our clothes and toys, that made up for the beatings.

I left out a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt for Mark. He had a good jacket, too, thankfully. Other than that, I started packing: dinosaur sweaters, trousers, rocketship underpants, two pairs of pajamas, shirts and unbelievably tiny socks. It was a duffel bag that I used, stored, not child-sized, so I could take a fair amount of clothing.

_Thank God. Kids grow pretty fast._

What the hell was I doing?

The thought struck as I packed Mark's belongings, and my hands began to shake. I was twenty-one years old. Barely. And I hadn't asked for a baby for my birthday. How could I take care of him? Did he have allergies? Was Mark in kindergarten yet? He would know those things, but what about money for clothes and food and toys?

"Rog-errr, I'm cleaned!" Mark called.

"O, okay, Mark, can you dry yourself off?" I called back, trying to keep my voice quiet like he might forget I was here, Mark was here. Maybe he might forget we existed.

"Yes!"

I tossed a couple of books into the bag. He had a lot, probably liked one or another of them.

Mark strutted into the room, practically burka'd up in his towel. I bit down on my cheek to keep from laughing. The boy's bespectacled eyes peered at me from within a shroud of yellow.

"Let's get you dressed, okay, Mark?" I asked.

"Okay," he said.

"Can you, um, manage it yourself?"

"What?"

"Can you dress yourself?" I asked. Mark nodded. "Okay. Get dressed and we'll go, okay?"

Mark blinked up at me. His eyes were huge and amazingly clear behind spectacle lenses. "Go?" he asked. His eyes went shiny and his chin wobbled. He poked out his lower lip. "Can't you stay?" he asked. "Can't you stay for tonight?" The pitch of his voice rose steadily. "Please? You can play with my toys! You can have Toronto!" he wailed, reaching for his toy horse.

"Hey." I knelt and pulled him against my chest. Mark burrowed into me. He twisted his little fists into my shirt. "I'm not leaving you alone, okay? But I'm not staying here. You can come home with me for a little while, okay? Is that all right, Mark?"

Mark pulled away. He looked up at me and whimpered. "What about Mommy?" he asked.

My heart twisted. I wanted her to come, too -- I wanted her to be safe. "Not Mommy. I'm sorry, baby," I added when his eyes went teary again. "Mommy's a grown-up. Grown-ups have to make and stand by their own choices. She can come live with us if she wants, though."

"I'm gonna ask," he announced, and before I could stop him he pulled his towel up around himself and ran out of the room. I should have followed him. If I was smart, if I was thinking, I would have followed him and brought him back into the bedroom instead of going back to packing. I finished arranging Mark's clothes and books. At first I added Toronto the horse, too, but then I thought better of it. Mark should carry Toronto with him. Maybe he would feel better that way.

I lined the top of the bag with the quilt Mom had given me.

Down the corridor, Mark whimpered. "Shit." I zipped up the duffel bag. The door opened swiftly.

"Roger, what the hell is he talking about?" Dad demanded. He held Mark by the arm and shoved him forward as he spoke. Mark whimpered. He was crying.

I swallowed. Being confronted by him made me eight years old again. My throat went tight and my testicles clung up high and dry. "I.. I'm taking Mark," I stammered. I blushed to stammer, but forced myself to face him and continue, "He's not staying with you."

"The hell he's not. You fucked up your life, that's bad enough. Do you have to spread that to your brother?"

"_You_ fucked up my life!" I snapped, furious enough to forget my fear, and he did something he hadn't done in four years: he smacked me across the mouth.

Mark yelped and I tried to hit back, but Dad squeezed my wrist and yanked hard on my hair. _Hurt._ I gritted my teeth, but it fucking hurt. "Tell him," Dad hissed in my ear. "Tell him he's not fucking going anywhere."

I looked at Mark, who was standing there, just trembling and whimpering, butt naked. Christ. "Mark," I forced myself to say, trying to keep my voice calm. "Put your clothes on, okay, buddy? Get dressed," I insisted, when he didn't move. Mark whimpered, but he ran to put on his pants.

"Jesus Christ, Roger--"

I didn't think. No-- I did. I knew precisely what I was going to do, and part of me thought it might not be a good idea, but pain shut that out. Pain shut out anything but what to do to make it not hurt anymore. I brought my foot up and kicked Dad right where it hurt. He let go and fell back.

"Daddy?" Mark asked.

"Mark!" I pulled his jacket on so quickly he wailed ("You're hurting me!"), slung the bag over my shoulder, and picked up Mark.

He wailed, "Toronto!"

"Jesus." Dad was getting up, we needed to go, who gave a DAMN about the TOY?! Well apparently a five-year-old did. I bent, grabbed the horse and pushed it into his hands. Mark snuggled into my chest, and I walked right out of the apartment with him in my arms.

_to be continued!_

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	7. Homecoming

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

Mark fell asleep on the subway, curled on my lap with his thumb in his mouth and Toronto clutched in his free hand. At my stop I hefted him and his bag, lumbered and stumbled off the car, and stopped at the stairs to rearrange. The bag was killing my elbow; I hurled it up onto my shoulder and bent, knowing it would bother me like hell until I had it off.

For the next few blocks, Mark slept. He was a noisy sleeper, but in a pleasant way. He murmured and garbled and even giggled, nestled against my chest as I carried him. He made me smile, made me so happy I didn't even care that he was growing heavier with every step.

When I shifted him to my other hip and searched my pockets for the keys, Mark yawned. "Wha's happening?" he asked. He looked up at me. "Roger? Where are we?" He gazed around him at the dark buildings, nothing helped by a multitude of broken streetlights, and cuddled closer. "I don't like it!" he announced.

I smiled. "I bet Daddy would hate it."

Mark looked up tentatively and gazed around. "Maybe it's oooh-kay," he decreed slowly.

I bounced him and he smiled. "Enough to go inside?" I asked.

Mark shook his head. "There's witches and monsters…"

"And my roommates. This is where I live, buddy." I shifted the bag. It was _killing_ my shoulder. "You wanna see my room?"

Mark nodded.

"All right!" I let us into the building. "Think you can go up the stairs on your own?"

"I'm five," Mark informed me indignantly, "not two. I bet I can even go up the stairs faster than you can!" he squealed, and squirmed to get free of my arms. I nearly dropped him before setting him down gently.

"Easy, Mark."

Too late. He had already taken off and was puffing his way up the stairs. I followed, staying two stairs behind at all times as Mark yelped that he was going to win. He jumped up and down when he reached the top landing.

"Hey, nice job, little guy!" I picked him up. "You're too quick for me. Come on." I hauled open the apartment door and carried Mark in. Julie and Collins were on the couch, playing a game of cards. "Hey, guys," I said.

"Hey, Roger," they chorused without looking up.

"Slapjack again?"

"Yup."

"Where's April and Stanley?"

"Out."

We managed this entire exchange without Julie or Collins looking up once. Mark wrapped an arm around my neck and closed his eyes again. "By the way, Collins, can Mark share our bedroom?"

"Who's Mark?" he asked, looking up. Then he said, "Oh… shit."

Julie asked, "What is it?" and looked up. "Oh my God," she said. "Roger. Oh my God."

Mark waved a chubby hand and them and said in a high-pitched whisper, "Hi."

"Hey, sweetheart." Julie walked over. "What's your name?" she asked, stroking his hair.

Mark gasped and pulled away from her, burrowing against me instead. "Roger," he whimpered, clutching handfuls of my shirt in his pudgy fingers.

I smiled at Julie. "This is Mark, my little brother. Mark, say hi."

"Hi," he said, pressing closer into my chest. "Roger…"

"Hey, shh," I said, bouncing him, but this time it didn't work. It was after ten o'clock at night. Mark was tired and in a new environment, with a strange woman trying to pet his hair. He was, overall, tired and scared and helpless. Mark screwed his eyes shut and began to wail.

"I wanna go _hooome_," he wailed. "I want Mommy! I wanna go home!" He thrashed in my arms and pummeled me with his tiny fists. "Let me go! I wanna go home, lemme _go-o-o-o!_"

"Okay, hey, stop that!"

"Roger, what the hell—"

"Not right now, Collins." I tightened my hold on Mark and, without another glance at my friends, carried the baby into the bedroom. He was still thrashing when I sat on my bed, and I did the only thing I could think of: I held him tightly while he stretch and squalled, trying and failing to free himself. "Don't do that, Mark," I said quietly. "Don't do that. Calm down baby, shh, don't cry, you're okay…"

I rocked him, not giving him an inch of wiggle room and singing the same little songs I sang to him when he was a baby. When Mark stopped screaming and kicking and punching, I help him back and stroked his hair. "Are you okay now?" I asked.

He sniffled and nodded. "I want Mommy," he said. "Why couldn't Mommy come live with us?"

"Mommy… wanted to stay with Daddy," I forced myself to say.

"How come she doesn't love us?" Mark asked.

"She does. Mommy's just a little confused," I explained. Mark looked at me, doleful, and wiped a tear off his cheek. "Ready for bed?" I asked. Mark nodded. "Okay. Let's find your pajamas." I took my new quilt out of the bag, then sorted through the handfuls of clothing until I found Mark's flannels.

When he saw what I was doing, Mark stood on the bed and held his arms up. I pulled his shirt over his head and slipped on his jammie jacket, trying not to look at the bruises and blatant frailty of his chest. "Anything special you do before bed?" I asked.

Mark shook his head. "Just brush my teeth and go to the bathroom."

_Shit!_ I hadn't brought his toothbrush! "Hey, um, you can use my toothbrush today, okay?" I asked. Mark nodded. I ruffled his hair, and he giggled. "Good boy."

After wrangling him fully into his pajamas, I led Mark to the bathroom. He didn't want me to leave him; in fact, he wouldn't _let_ me leave him. I squeezed a dot of paste onto my toothbrush and handed it to him. "R'gr," Mark mumbled through a mouthful of toothpaste. He pointed to the sink. I lifted him, and he spat.

Mark's chest was too bony, his body too thin. While he bobbed his head to spit I saw a purple bruise on the side of his neck and my gut twisted. "Okay." I set him on the floor. "I'm gonna wait outside while you use the toilet, okay?"

"Why?" Mark asked. "What if there's toilet snakes?"

I smiled. "There's not toilet snakes," I assured him.

"Are you sure?"

"Completely."

"Well… okay."

When I left the bathroom and closed the door gently, Collins was staring at me. "What?" I asked. I didn't need this right now. I needed things to be good and easy for a moment.

"Mark?" he asked. "Since when do you have a brother?"

"Since five years ago," I said.

Collins nodded. "Look, you can understand how weird it is that suddenly you bring a five-year-old boy into this apartment. It's not exactly an ideal environment," he said.

"I know." But that was the first time I realized how much I needed my roommates. I needed them to say Mark could stay. I needed someone to watch him while I was at work. "But—"

"Roger?" Mark stepped out of the bathroom. "I can't reach the sink to wash my hands," he said.

"Okay, buddy." I gave Collins a quick smile, then lifted Mark up to the sink. He washed his hands. I helped him dry his hands. "Ready for bed now?"

"Uh-huh."

"Come on, cranky-pus," I said, taking his hand.

Mark followed me to the bedroom, complaining, "I'm not a cranky-pus!"

I pulled back the covers and lifted Mark onto the bed, then pulled the blankets up to his chin. "You comfortable?" I asked. Mark nodded. "Good." I pointed to the other bed in the room. "That's where my friend Collins sleeps. Do you want me to sleep on the floor, or is it okay if I share your bed?"

"Where's your bed?" Mark asked.

I patted the mattress. "This is it, buddy."

"Sleep with me," Mark said. "I don't wanna be alone. It's scary here."

"Okay." I smoothed down his hair and kissed his forehead. "I'll be right back, okay?"

Mark began to panic. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"Brush my teeth and use the toilet, just like you did."

"Then lay down with me."

"Okay," I promised.

Before he let me leave, Mark reached up and touched my face. "Mark's brother," he said.

I smiled. "Yeah," I told him, "that's right."

Lying in bed that night, holding my sleeping brother against my chest, was the first time I didn't question what I had done. He slept peacefully, deeply, and in the dark it was easy to think that what I had done was right.

_to be continued_


	8. Convincing Collins

Disclaimer: you all know it's Mr. Larson's

Mark was asleep when I woke up. I climbed out of bed as quietly as possible, trying not to disrupt him, and I mostly succeeded. He remained asleep, breathing deeply with one chubby hand on the pillow beside his head. Mark had slept soundly the entire night – no nightmares, no crying.

I tucked the quilt around his body and slipped into the next room. "Holy shit." It was bright, natural light setting everything on fire. I stumbled to the stove and a pot of coffee. Coffee is my lifeblood. Coffee is… amazing brilliant fantastic wonderful excellent necessary. And once I had sucked down a cup and a half, I was coherent.

"Where is everybody?" I asked Collins.

He answered shortly, "April took Julie to the airport—she's flying home today—and Stanley is at work." We were never sure precise what Stanley _did_ for work – he was an illegal alien who had moved here from Poland, a landlord's dream who always paid his share of the rent on time and in cash.

"So… Mark," Collins said.

I should have known we weren't through. He gestured for me to sit, and I did. "He needs a place to stay and home is out of the question," I explained, trying to sound precise, accurate and in control. Of course I was talking to Collins so I just ended up sounding nervous, juvenile and full of shit.

"And he's five."

"Yes."

"When you say 'needs a place to stay', do you mean your parents are on vacation?" he asked, perhaps a little too hopefully and at the same time scornfully. He knew it was a shitty guess.

I sighed and shook my head. "More like… April having her sister here." Lucky for me there was precedent.

"Julie is sixteen. And she worked. And it was the summer." Was. I had forgotten that Julie was heading home that day; so much for built-in babysitting. "Roger, having a kid that age is a big responsibility. He's going to need constant attention, school – most schools start next month. You'll need to enroll Mark, get him there every morning and home every afternoon. You'll have to pay for his clothes, his food; you'll have to pay if he's sick. Roger… you can't afford this. To say nothing of the neighborhood."

I scoffed at his hypocrisy. "Collins, you tout our lifestyle every day. Freedom of choice, remember? Taking what's yours, overthrowing the government, defying—"

He didn't let me finish. "Is all excellent, yes, for _us_. You play your gigs, I teach, April works where she can get it. And if you want to live on a few hundred dollars a month or less, I'm not disagreeing. Mark is five years old. He can't work, and you can't support him."

"May I present my argument?" I asked. Collins nodded. Of course. He believed in fair play. I stood. "Come with me. Quietly." And I led him into the bedroom. Mark was still asleep, deeply. I stroked his hair. "Look at these," I murmured. The bruises stood out sharply on Mark's neck, dark against pale skin. It was my best argument, the marks of an attempted strangulation.

I didn't win. Collins just stopped fighting me then. He nodded softly, and we walked out of the room.

_to be continued!_

Reviews would be awesome.


	9. Roger & April

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

At half past nine the door slid open and in walked a vision in blue jeans and Roger's leather jacket hanging open just enough to show the tightness of her white T-shirt over her breasts. Roger loved April's breasts and had spent the past few months attempting to describe them. He just couldn't. They were the first breasts he had ever felt. His high school girlfriend's breasts were still what one would call "budding". The next string of girlfriends wouldn't let him get anywhere near their breasts. They dumped him after a date or two or, if he did really well, three. He'd had a one-night stand who for some reason let him penetrate her but not touch her breasts.

And Roger loved breasts. He felt a spiritual connection to them. April's breasts didn't make them hard. They made him tumesce.

This was true of touch, taste, smell. It was the heavy comfort he felt cupping April's breasts, the way they pouched at the bottom, and most importantly the way he would not be able to touch them, bare, with Mark asleep in the next room. He might wake up at any minute.

"Hey, April," Roger said. He walked over and kissed her cheek.

April chuckled. "What's that about?" she asked. "Huh?" She rubbed against him, just once, slowly. "You don't usually kiss me like you're my _brother_," she complained, and moved in for another kiss.

Roger smiled sheepishly. "Sorry," he said, and gave April the kiss she wanted, on the mouth, plenty of tongue. He knew her preferences. He knew how to stop just before she got too horny to quit. "Listen… my brother's staying with us for a little while. I was hoping, while he's here, that we could keep things PG-13."

Disappointment registered on April's face. She transitioned quickly to annoyance. She was used to attention from Roger. Constant, common, often, everywhere. Zero to sixty was a rush and a thrill. Sixty to zero was something altogether different, hurling against the seatbelt and choking on your bubblegum while the rubber burned off onto the road. "Why, Roger?" she asked. "You didn't mind fucking me with Julie here."

"Yes," Roger admitted, "I didn't mind too much. But we kept it down, didn't we? And never in the same room or anything. Besides, that's different. Mark's just a baby."

April raised her eyebrows. "You have a baby brother?" she asked, her tone bordering on incredulity.

"Yes," Roger replied.

"Aaaw!" April cooed. The woman who had never even considered children, who had been looking forward to the pill since her first period and still like him to wear a condom, seemed to melt at the thought of a small Roger. (But then, Roger thought, who wouldn't?) "Where is he? Can I meet him?" She gasped. "Do you have any little _sisters_!?" April squealed.

Roger rubbed her arms. "April, take a deep breath, okay?" he asked. "Mark isn't here like Julie was, to have fun and experience real life, okay? He's here because he needs a safe place to stay."

"What do you mean?"

Roger bit his lip slightly. He knew April wasn't brilliant but she was clever enough. She could add two and two and come out with four, and she would know that the things Roger said about Mark's childhood were true of his, as well. "Come sit down, 'Ril, okay?" he said. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to the couch, and sat down beside her.

He held her hands. Roger had always admired April's small hands. His own hands were warped from years of guitar, the bones shifted to a wider spread, his fingers widened by calluses. Now he understood that April's beautiful hands were so fragile… just like her. Maybe she couldn't take this. Maybe she was no stronger than the polish that chipped, Roger thought, too easily to be worth the money. He rubbed the back of her hands and felt the thin, brittle bones.

"Mark was being treated badly at home," Roger said, keeping his voice low. Mark didn't need to hear this, if he awoke. He didn't need to feel like a freak on display. "His dad was abusing him… beating him, throwing him around, he even choked him. And he abused him verbally, called him names. I couldn't let him stay in that environment."

April nodded. "Of course not," she said. "No… no, it makes sense to take him out. But you couldn't call social services or something?" she asked. It seemed, Roger thought, to be everyone's first reaction: disapproval. "I mean sure, he's your brother, but it isn't your job to take care of him."

"I had to get him out _then_."

"You could've called the police—"

Roger shook his head. "April," he interrupted. "April, I saw a five-year-old boy being strangled and thrown against walls because some of his play-doh got on the carpet. Would you have called some jaded officers on what they would consider a trumped-up domestic abuse charge? And then what? They get there and, and he calms down, says everything's fine?" he asked. He was growing hysterical, speaking more quickly, his voice beginning to rasp. Roger blinked rapidly, subconsciously, unaware of the tears in his eyes. "Let my little brother die? You don't understand, April! You don't know what it's like, but I was there for him! I held him, I sang him lullabies, I changed his shitty diapers, _I cared about him like no one did!_"

"Okay," April whispered. She didn't know what to say. Sure, sometimes Roger lost his temper, but she had never seen him like this. His human part was beyond her touch. She expected him to burst—literally—more than she expected what truly happened. Roger buried his face in his arms as the truth of the previous evening washed over him, as he realized what he had done. He was hiding.

"Roger?" April rubbed his back. "It's okay, honey," she soothed, rubbing little circles as Roger's shoulders jumped. He cried more like a hamster than a human, and didn't stop until they heard movement in the next room. The Roger's tears dried like grapes in Egypt, and April's face lit with excitement.

_to be continued!_

_Review? Pretty please? _


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